


they call us gentlemen thieves

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: A job in a Regency ballroom, and something has gone wrong.





	

Eames steps outside onto the balcony, his boots clicking on the marble. “Arthur? Are you out there?” He sets his glass of champagne on the banister—damn, where could he have gone? He was out here only a moment ago; Eames had been sure this was his chance to apologize, to make things right.

“Were you looking for someone in particular?” drawls Arthur’s voice behind him. He steps out from the shadows—Eames spins so quickly he nearly loses his footing, stumbling headlong into the hard wall of Arthur’s chest, only just catching himself. Arthur’s hands shoot out to steady him, his hold gentle yet firm on Eames’ arms, the thumbs rolling in slow circles. “Me, perhaps?”

“I, er,” Eames stutters, hands still on Arthur’s chest, their faces much closer than he expected. God, he looks good, this dream suits him. It isn’t just his ever-present beauty, hard and masculine despite how slender Arthur is; Eames has known Arthur long enough to not be quite so shallow in his regard. No, it’s more than that. He has an aura of confidence about him—some might say arrogance, but Eames knows better—that draws Eames with the same pull the sun exerts on the earth. “I wanted to speak to you, yes—god, Arthur, you frightened me,” he finally chokes out.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, all politesse and decorum. But his hooded gaze and the way his mouth is twitching at the corners hints he’s probably not sorry in the least—knows, in fact, that it’s Eames who should be apologizing in the first place. He can only imagine what Arthur thinks of him.

“Arthur, I—“

“Shh,” Arthur interrupts, pushing Eames gently back, dusting something imaginary from his shoulders. “Would you care to take air with me, Mr Eames?”

Christ, he’s in character. _This_ is what he’s been meaning to apologize about, the somnacin being mixed, the unexpected consequences. If he’s the only one who remembers the bloody mark in this bloody ball—oh, but Arthur has a hand on Eames’ arm, and they’re already starting to walk. This is ridiculous, of course, but then again…

“I suppose we must, then, mustn’t we?” he mused aloud, walking down the steps into the garden, Arthur at his side. They only go a few minutes, sliding behind the privacy of a hedgerow, before Arthur speaks.

“Mr Eames—shall we be honest with each other?” The purr of Arthur’s voice is deep, a rumble that slides like silk over Eames’ skin. How he manages to coax and command in the same breath, Eames doesn’t know, but Arthur’s tone does both. “I have watched you watch me, Eames, for years, now. Isn’t it safe to say—you want this as much as I do?” His voice is silky, seductive, not for the faint of heart. A lesser man, or woman, for that matter, would be swooning by now.

Mesmerized, Eames stands mute, inhaling Arthur’s scent and fighting the weakness making sawdust of his will to bring Arthur back to himself. Just a few more moments like this, this dark and lovely beast—he likes Arthur all the time, of course, but this is something to behold, an Arthur overtaken by the roles they’re all playing.

Arthur’s hand on his arm brings him back to himself, Arthur leaning in towards him, a slow descent. “Would you like me to kiss you, Mr Eames?” he murmurs, and Eames can feel the puffs of breath on his skin.

“I—god, yes,” Eames blurts, leaning forward and then rocking back, on his heels. “But you—we shouldn’t, I—we have work to do.”

“I have time for a dalliance and you say we have work to do? Why, Mr Eames, there must be a first time for everything.”

Eames tilts his head to meet Arthur’s mouth, giving in finally to this dalliance of Arthur’s. And what a dalliance it is—this is no soft and tentative kiss of new lovers, but one so sensual and hot, it reverberates right down to the soles of Eames’ feet. Arthur’s tongue traces the softness of his lower lip before plunging inside his mouth, tangling with his own deliciously, a groan of pleasure rumbling from Eames’ chest as the kiss takes him deeper, drugging him into mindlessness.

Arthur pulls him closer at the same time as Eames presses for more contact, the hard thrusts of their hips against each other’s bodies. Eames breaks the kiss with a ragged gasp—but Arthur is insistent, locking his mouth over Eames’ again, slender hands pressing Eames’ firmly against him. “Eames,” he says, rough and hoarse.

“Yes,” Eames says, everything forgotten but this moment, this kiss.

The click of a door sounded, echoing in the garden. They spring apart, Eames wrenching himself from the warmth of Arthur’s arms, his breath coming in short halting pants, body still thrumming with unquenched desire.

When he looks over at Arthur, it’s clear he, too, is not unaffected—Arthur’s eyes are dark and wide, openly wanting. But they do, in fact, have a job to do, a mark waiting for them inside, Ariadne holding her own, presumably, doing the work of three. Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—god, he’s wearing gloves, Eames only just noticed—and nods towards the steps. “We should—I have an obligation, I must see to, Mr Eames, if you don’t mind. Would you—It probably would not be wise if we returned together. I will use the entrance on the side, the door is always open for these affairs. If you like, I shall go first.”

The transition was seamless—he lifts his brow in question, now all gallantry and polished composure.

Eames agrees with a little nod and watches as he disappears, silent and sure-footed, into the moonless night. When he hears the last of Arthur’s retreat, he turns on his heel and dashes a quick glance around before making his way back towards the French doors. They can finish this when the job is over.

 

 

 

Blinking awake, their eyes meet over the still-sleeping mark. The hunger is still in Arthur’s eyes—they’ve succeeded, in the job, but there’s much more to deal with, this time, than usual. They pack up their things, all stealth and silence. Ariadne waves on her way out the door, boots clicking on the tiles, and Eames is alone with Arthur again, the ghostly sense-memory of his mouth still lingering.

For an instant, Arthur looks panicked, an expression that hardly sits well on his face. He draws a breath, motions towards the door. Eames follows, certain that any moment Arthur will surrender, will say anything. They can avoid all of this, Eames knows—they can ignore what happened in the dream, under the influence of the drug, if that’s what Arthur wants. Eames will do anything, if that’s what Arthur wants.

They end up walking side by side, all the way to Arthur’s hotel, not speaking. “Come inside,” Arthur says quietly, more reserved than Eames has seen him when they’re alone in years. They’ve always been dancing around each other, in this push and pull, for so long—it was almost comfortable, before this. Before the kiss.

Eames comes in, turns towards the bed unwilling to watch Arthur’s approach, terrified he’ll see something he can’t take back. But he can sense when Arthur stands behind him, still for a moment, as if just breathing him in. He smells of musk, and soap, and Arthur himself, indefinable and distinct.

He starts when Arthur’s hands come up, and his fingers brush Eames’ nape. It takes him a moment to realize they’re really doing this, Arthur is really here, not in a dream. His touch is warm, and light, and Eames’ senses are going wild.

“I want you naked,” Arthur murmurs in his ear. “I want to see you.”

The warmth of his breath feathers Eames’ ear. If he turned his head, Arthur could kiss him. He can hear it in the cadence of Arthur’s breathing and the way he now crowds around Eames, so close he can feel the heat of Arthur’s body. And oh, how he wants this, how he wants Arthur to kiss him again. He’s lost, swept up in the sensations of his wanting, so much he starts when Arthur speaks again, breath warm against his neck.

“Turn around.”

It’s not a request. It’s a graveled order, velvet over melted steel.

Like a marionette controlled by a master manipulator, he turns slowly, unable to stop himself. Anticipation thrums through his body as he waits, forcing his hands to remain at his sides. He won’t try to go further, not unless Arthur wants it. Arthur is in control here—Arthur, always Arthur.

Arthur touches a hand to Eames’ cheek. “I want you,” he admits, in a voice that goes straight to Eames’ cock. “I want you, and I might still have something in that fucked up cocktail in my system, but I wanted you before this job and I’ll want you after. Is that okay.”

It’s not a question, but Eames nods anyway. “Yes, yes of course—Arthur, yes,” he says breathlessly, before Arthur slots their mouths together. Eames reaches automatically for the muscled hardness of his shoulders, so different from his own. The feel of him, the taste of his lips sends Eames’ already racing heart into a frantic gallop. He’s been waiting years for this—all he can do now is open his mouth wider and hold on. He can hear himself moaning—and the sound Arthur makes is somewhere between a laugh and a groan in response, his hands curling securely around Eames, bringing them solidly together. Eames gasps as their hips press against each other, Arthur as hard as he is.

Time no longer matters. They might be kissing for seconds, minutes, or hours, Eames can’t be sure. He only knows he never wants it to stop, that he wants Arthur against him forever. As if sensing his need, Arthur’s hands start to flick open Eames’ buttons, pushing his shirt back. Only when he’s naked from the waist up does Arthur pull back to look at him, surveying Eames’ chest, his tattoos, his muscle.

“Beautiful,” Arthur says, and Eames finally understands.

This isn’t the drug, anymore, the influences of the mark’s fantasy breaking down the walls between them. This is it, this is them—this is Arthur, looking at Eames, and all Eames wants is to be with him.

“Arthur,” Eames starts. He’s cut off with a kiss, a sweet one this time, just the slightest brush of lips.

“I know,” he says into Eames’ mouth. “I can feel it wearing off too. Just—can we pretend, a little longer? I—I like it.” Arthur’s smiling, a little sheepish, a far cry from the self-possessed, possessive lord the dream had turned him into.

Eames leans in for a longer kiss, wet and open-mouthed. “Okay,” he agrees, against Arthur’s mouth. “I can do that.”

The response is instantaneous—Arthur’s arms are back around him, his tongue in Eames’ mouth, walking him back towards the bed. Eames goes down when Arthur pushes, kicks off his shoes, lets Arthur pull away his trousers and lie above him, the friction between his nakedness and Arthur’s clothing delicious and sensational. “Beautiful,” Arthur murmurs again, and the tone of his voice makes Eames shiver, press up for more. “Mine,” he says, and Eames’ cock twitches, his fingers grasping at the sheets, finally reaching up to unbutton Arthur’s shirt too. He can’t get Arthur naked fast enough, at this point—the need is building with every brush of Arthur’s groin against his own. Kiss after kiss and he’s gasping, unable to decide what he wants to focus on more, Arthur’s mouth on his mouth or their cocks sliding together, into the dips and valleys of each other’s hips.

“I want,” he manages, looking up at Arthur, whose eyes are as hungry as Eames feels. “I want you to fuck me.”

Arthur crushes their mouths together, hard and wet and desperate, and Eames can feel the edges of his desire. He reaches in the bedside table—“Oh, expecting this, were we,” Eames quips—and pulls out condoms and lube, setting them down beside Eames before pulling back.

“I’ve put them in every room I stay in since Kandahar,” Arthur says frankly, spreading his hands over Eames’ chest, eyes sharp as if cataloguing the new tattoos.

Eames’ eyes soften. Kandahar was almost a decade ago, a memory locked away with the people they had once been. Arthur’s hair had been buzzed short on orders, none of the long and damply curling strands Eames sees now. Eames himself had been smaller, with fewer scars and less ink, but their bodies cleave together now sharper and better than they did once, as if their muscles have always known this was the endgame. He pulls Arthur down again, this kiss gentler, sweeter.

“I kept mine in my bag,” he confesses, thumbing across Arthur’s cheek. “I never wanted to leave you, then.” _I don’t want to leave you now. Don’t make me go._

“I know,” Arthur says, and presses kisses down Eames’ jaw, into the hollow of his neck. The snap of the cap is loud in the warm room, a promise that makes Eames shiver, and the first press of Arthur’s fingers feels the same as it did the last time, even with eight years between them.

And everything is soft and hazy, and Eames’ vision goes fuzzy at the edges when Arthur presses three fingers in to the hilt, brushing his prostate lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do, Eames thinks, asking “please, please,” until Arthur replaces his fingers with the blunt head of his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur says softly, Eames’ legs around his waist. “Fuck, Eames, Eames,” he chants, pressing the words into Eames’ neck. Eames splays his hands over Arthur’s back and pulls him closer, pushing into Arthur’s movements with little gasping breaths. It’s hot and right and perfect and comfortable and fuck, it feels like home, feels like just what Eames has been waiting for. He’ll have to send a thank you note to Yusuf, for his slightly fucked up somnacin. As soon as he gets done with this, with pressing kiss after kiss to every part of Arthur he can reach, with rocking into Arthur’s body until he can’t see straight, with sucking in breath like a drowning man, as Arthur tugs at his cock in soft, slow counterpoint.

No, scratch that. He’ll never be done with this. He’ll never be satisfied without this again.

Arthur picks up his movements and Eames quickens to match him, his eyes wide open, watching the sweat collecting in Arthur’s collarbone. He waits until they’re both close to lick out at it, feeling Arthur coming as he seals his mouth over the dip, sucking the salt from the flesh. And Eames is coming too, coming with the feel of Arthur inside him and the taste of Arthur in his mouth, spilling over Arthur’s fingers, until the entire world stops spinning, all of Eames’ consciousness drawing close into this one second, this single place.

He whites out, for a few seconds, he’s pretty sure. He’s never done that before.

When he comes back down Arthur is staring at his mouth, stock still and breathless. Eames pulls him into one long kiss, breathing life back into him, bringing back the Arthur he knows and loves (and _loves_ ) from the moment of panic he might have been approaching. They relax into each other, Arthur pulling out with a hiss and throwing the condom away, Eames cleaning off with a corner of a sheet and turning into the space in Arthur’s arms.

“I don’t want to leave you again,” Eames confesses, nosing at Arthur’s jaw.

“I wouldn’t dare send you away,” Arthur replies, granting Eames a kiss, fingers on his neck. “I always want you here.”

“I’ll be here, from now on.”

It’s a promise he knows he can keep, this time.

Yusuf’s thank you note can wait until the morning.


End file.
